


The Suicide of a Fake Genius

by archdukefranzferdinand



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archdukefranzferdinand/pseuds/archdukefranzferdinand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach - "SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS: Fraudulent Detective Takes His Own Life" His brother, the "Fake genius", the "Fraudulent Detective". Or so the papers say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Suicide of a Fake Genius

**Author's Note:**

> This is from Mycroft's pov and his emotions are able to get the best of him so if you don't like reading emotional!mycroft, this isnt for you

Four days after 'The Fall'

Mycroft Holmes is well aware of the sideways glances, the hushed tones, and the lack of eye contact that seem to follow him everywhere he goes, even in his precious Diogenes Club. At least here, there is not as much talking as when he is in the company of his colleagues and acquaintances. Along with the benefit of the peaceful silence, he is able to slip away into the privacy of his office- with only Anthea to keep him company, if he so wishes her to.

He sweeps into his office, closing the door behind him, and hanging his coat and his umbrella on the rack, in one swift movement. He had begun using this particular umbrella the day of Sherlock's' death- after all, it was an old Christmas present from him. In five quick strides Mycroft is at his desk, readying himself to sink into his chair and call Anthea for tea, when the newspaper catches his eye once again.

"SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS: Fraudulent Detective Takes His Own Life"

His brother, the "Fake genius", the "Fraudulent Detective". Or so the papers say. Of course, none of the details are true, but Sherlock did kill himself, a mere four days ago. After one long minute of glaring down at the paper, he throws it off his desk, and finals sitting and calls Anthea in- texts her really. He has rarely spoken since St. Bart's called him with the news.

Letting his head droop down into his hands, he thinks over all that has happened in the past weeks, everything that has lead him to this point. Indubitably, it all goes back to Moriarty, doesn't it? James Moriarty, the Spider, the Consulting Criminal, the mastermind behind the demise of the worlds one and only Great Consulting Detective. The answer should be yes, Moriarty is the one at fault. Only, it isn't so simple. Nothing ever is when the Holmes' brothers are involved. John and Anthea were the only other people who knew just who the real person at fault was- himself. Mycroft Holmes, the true cause of the downfall of his own brother. After all, he did nothing to help Sherlock, never once intervening unless he needed his help. And in the end, he was the one who gave Moriarty the information that led to the creation of his brothers trap. That's what happens when you let work come between yourself and your family. Mummy would be so disappointed if she knew. She was devastated at the news that her own son, her wild, ingenious son, was accused of being a fraud and killing himself.

The guilt and grief that has been building inside Mycroft for the past few days is bordering tempestuous. All these emotions he tries so hard to hide from the public eye threatening to spill over at any moment, leaving him completely vulnerable.

There is a light, quick rap on the door and it opens and closes again, Anthea needing no response, and his assistant makes her way to his desk, placing his tea close to him.

Sweet, sweet Anthea, the only person he allows himself to be openly emotional with. Sensing that he is in need of comforting and no longer able to keep his true reaction to his brother suicide bottled up, she pulls him towards her forcing his shaking form to lean against her hip. She places one hand on his back and the other behind his neck, nuzzling her face into the soft wisps on hair, whispering soothing phrases to him, telling him it's not his fault, everything will work out in the end. Mycroft suddenly breaks down into gasping sobs, thoroughly breaking down the walls he has placed to hide such horrific emotions. He clenches to Anthea for dear life, begging her to share some of this burden that he has placed upon himself, to take some of this relentless anguish.

"Ah, so you did keep the umbrella after all?" The words coming from a deep baritone voice, so like Mycroft's. A voice that was believed to never be heard again. Mycroft's head snapped up, gaping in utter disbelief, tears still rolling down his cheeks as his hands remained clasped to Anthea shirt.

The man standing before them smiled slightly, "Miss me, dear brother?"

That impossible man, who could only be Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
